


An Artistic Rendering

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Idiots in Love, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: Ron just wants to be depicted accurately, that’s all.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This arose from a delightfully ridiculous Tumblr prompt (“Plz write something sexy where Hermione sees his penis and talks about it”), but it turns out that I am actually quite pleased with it. Credit to an episode of Seinfeld for the line about the belt. Anyway... I hope you enjoy it!

“ _Hold still_ , Ron.”

“Forgive me if I’m not exactly comfortable like this-“

“I know, but the more you move, the more the lighting keeps changing and I don’t think I’m getting the shading right-”

“Well, by all means, make sure the lighting’s perfect on my-”

“Look, Ron,” Hermione interjected. “The longer you squirm, the longer this takes.”

With a sigh, she set down her pencil. She had signed up for this art class with her mum in an act of mother-daughter camaraderie, to demonstrate that even though she had once modified her parents’ memories and shipped them halfway round the globe to a foreign country, and even though she had told a great many lies to them during her time as a Hogwarts student, she cared about them, and she wanted a good relationship with them. 

At first it had been fun. She and her mum had laughed over their lopsided still life sketches of fruit bowls and complimented each other’s work with watercolors, and Hermione had promised not to use any magic to enhance her work. But then, as a final project, they had been tasked with completing a figure drawing at home, which would then be shared with the class for constructive criticism. A nude figure drawing, to be more exact, and so Hermione had turned to the one person she actually wanted to see naked: Ron.

And Ron - securing his status as the best boyfriend on the planet - had agreed (albeit begrudgingly).

So there he stood, in the sitting room of the little flat they rented together in North London, as naked as the day he was born, his ears and cheeks burning scarlet, while Hermione sat on the sofa and attempted to do him justice.

“So…” He set his hands on his hips, which obscured the light again, but Hermione bit her lip to keep from chastising him. “How should I… you know… _be_?”

He glanced down at himself, then inquisitively back up at her. 

“I don’t know,” she confessed, her eyes now also drawn to the area below his narrow hip bones. “Just… as you normally are, I suppose.”

“All right.” He folded his arms over his chest, then unfolded them. Set his hands on his hips, then twisted them anxiously together in front of himself. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and Hermione briefly entertained the mad thought that perhaps she should fetch him a belt just so he’d have somewhere to rest them. “Just… what if…”

“What?”

“I just don’t want to be… _misrepresented,_ ” he said pointedly. “If you know what I mean.”

“I promise you won’t be,” replied Hermione, warm affection for him bubbling up inside her, “but I really do need you to hold still.”

“All right, all right.”

Ron put his hands back on his hips, and Hermione set her attention back to the task at hand. It was much easier said than done, drawing him with any sort of accuracy: she struggled to capture the slope where his neck met his shoulder, or the lean muscularity of his legs. She had no idea how she was going to set about drawing the body part with which he was so concerned without feeling like she was creating pornography as opposed to art. Silent minutes passed with just the sound of cars driving by outside and the chatter of passersby on the street: Hermione stole a glance at the curtains on the windows and hoped they were opaque enough to hide what was happening inside their flat.

“So how’s it going over there?” asked Ron anxiously at one point.

“Erm… fine, I suppose,” said Hermione as she dotted in some freckles on his cheeks. “I’m just not sure - I’d like to add in the scars on your arms, and the one on your shoulder,” she explained, “but I don’t know how I’d explain what they’re from if people asked about them-”

Ron let out a shocked, sputtering cough. “Excuse me?!” he blurted out. “What ‘people’, exactly?”

“The people in my class,” Hermione said, watching Ron’s face drain of color. “We’re meant to share our drawings with everyone, so they can give us feedback and - and critiques-”

“ _Critiques_?!” He raised a hand to his forehead as abject horror took over his features. “So everyone in your class is going to see - oh, _God_.” The color was returning with full force back to his face, skipping red and going straight to beetroot. “Your _mum_ is going to see me naked-”

“It’s not like she’s walked in on you in the shower,” Hermione attempted to clarify, though judging by his mortification, the words were falling on deaf ears. “It’s an artistic rendering-”

“Yeah,” scoffed Ron, “an artistic rendering of my-”

“Don’t think of it like that.”

“How can I not?!”

“It isn’t like people are going to compare-”

“They might-”

“Well, I had to pick someone to draw, didn’t I?” said Hermione, hoping to appeal to the logical side of him (which, she was well aware, often failed him in times of distress). “You were the obvious choice, I’ve seen you naked a thousand times already.”

This reminder of their sex life put a smile on his face, though it quickly vanished. “Yeah, but honestly, you didn’t actually have to draw anything at all - it’s not like you’re earning another NEWT or anything.”

“I don’t like to skip assignments,” she reminded him, and he tilted his head in concession, “and anyway, I really don’t want to let my mum down. She really likes that we do this class together.”

“I know,” he said with a nod of understanding, voice softening. “All right, well, let’s just get on with it then.”

“I’m trying to, but you keep asking questions.” Their eyes met, and a gentle smile overtook Hermione’s face. “I really do appreciate you doing this, you know.”

“Oh, anything for you,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, though his voice brimmed with affection. “You know what might make me more comfortable, though?”

“Hmm?”

“If you were wearing a little less yourself,” he grinned, pointing to her from across the room. “Just to even things out a bit.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Hermione airily, picking her pencil back up. “That’ll come later tonight.”

Ron grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not expect this to have a part 2, but I couldn’t help myself...

Wednesday night art classes were typically followed by a casual dinner at a nearby restaurant. Usually, Hermione enjoyed this little post-class debrief session with her mum, but that had been under normal circumstances, when they’d been working on drawings of flowers or cats or bowls of fruit. Tonight, Hermione was not totally sure how she would tolerate sitting across from her mother for an entire meal, nor if she would ever be able to look her in the eye again.

“So, what do you think you want to order?” asked Mum cheerfully, opening up her menu. “I’m rather hungry, aren’t you? Maybe we ought to order a starter - the bruschetta here is supposed to be excellent.”

“Sure,” Hermione said, staring blankly into her own menu. Words like ‘carbonara’ and ‘pomodoro’ and ‘rigatoni’ floated meaninglessly in front of her. “Whatever you want.”

“Ooh, let’s get some wine, too,” Mum added. Had Hermione possessed the wherewithal to look at her, she would have been goggling in disbelief. How on earth was she so cheerful after what had just transpired? How was she, too, not completely disturbed? “How about Chianti? I never know what’s supposed to ‘pair well’ with something else, I just always get what I like-”

“Great,” interjected Hermione, eyes fixed on a description for chicken marsala. “Sure. Whatever.”

Mum set down her menu; in her periphery, Hermione sensed her leaning curiously toward her. “What’s going on, dear? Are you all right?”

“‘What’s going on?’” Hermione repeated back, incredulous. “‘Am I all right?’”

“Well-” Mum blinked, taken aback. “I know there were a couple other drawings that the instructor liked better, but she still thought yours was rather good - and you’ve always been better at things like science and maths anyway-”

“It’s not that.” 

Just as Mum opened her mouth to inquire further, a young woman in a crisp white blouse and black pants arrived at their table. “Good evening, ladies,” she greeted them. “My name is Nicola and I’ll be your server this evening. May I get you started with something to drink?”

Mum ordered the bottle of Chianti (Hermione privately thought they might need more than one by the time the night was over) and the bruschetta, and Nicola flounced away.

“Mum,” Hermione said, once she was sure that their server was out of earshot. “You drew a picture of _Dad._ ”

“Well, of course I did.” Her voice was infuriatingly casual. “He was the obvious subject, wasn’t he?”

“So you don’t think that was awkward for me at all?”

“Yours was of Ron,” Mum pointed out, leaving Hermione to briefly wonder how she was possibly related to someone so level-headed. “I’m certainly not interested in seeing my nineteen-year-old future son-in-law like that.”

The discomfort of the evening was dulled, at least momentarily, by this implication that she would be marrying Ron. While they were not yet engaged - Hermione was in no rush, and perfectly happy to cohabitate - she was also quite certain that she would be spending her life with Ron, and it was nice to know that her mum was so certain of it too.

Though, perhaps that made the events of the evening even more bizarre.

“That’s different,” replied Hermione finally. 

“How, exactly?”

“He’s not in his fifties, for one-”

“One day he will be,” said Mum, “and I’m sure when that day comes, you’ll find him just as attractive as you do now-”

“Oh my God,” groaned Hermione, squeezing her eyes shut against the barrage of unwelcome mental images that her mum had just conjured up for her. 

“Well, really.” Hermione forced herself to open her eyes, only to see a knowing, almost smug sort of look on her mum’s face (perhaps they had more in common than she thought). “Am I meant to believe that this was the first and only time you’ve ever seen it?”

“Please stop-”

“And don’t think we don’t know what happened in Australia.”

Before Hermione could inquire further about this - Australia was a topic that almost never arose between her and her parents, for obvious reasons - Nicola returned with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. The instant the wine was poured, Hermione seized upon her glass and drank deeply from it.

“What were you saying about Australia?” Hermione asked, once she had stopped to catch her breath.

“Just that it was clear what had… transpired between the two of you.”

Hermione paused, considering this, hoping her face was not giving anything away. It was true that she and Ron had had sex for the first time in Australia, just days before locating her parents and restoring their memories. And she did not expect her mum to be under any illusions about the nature of her relationship with Ron; they lived together, and before that, she had been quite unabashed about spending the night at his. But it was one thing to know, and quite another to discuss it.

“You could tell?”

“A mother always knows,” said Mum blithely around her own, more reserved sip of wine. “And really, it was just a matter of time. I always knew that.”

“You did?”

“It was always clear to me, and to your dad, that you had a certain connection with him,” said Mum. She had grown thoughtful now, introspective. “Actually, I imagine it was clear to everyone but the pair of you at times.”

“You’re right about that.”

“It’s why we were always happy to let you spend summers with his family, or spend your Christmas at Hog - at school,” she finished lamely, eyes darting around the restaurant. “You had such trouble fitting in when you were younger, and we were so happy that you found someone who… who understands you, the way he does.”

Hermione nodded, thankful that Nicola had swept over to them with a plate of bruschetta, because she was at a rare loss for words. She always knew her parents had liked Ron, and they’d made no secret of their gratefulness that she had found friends at last in him and Harry. But she hadn’t known that they had seen the depth of their relationship, or understood its uniqueness. Most people questioned what she and Ron saw in each other… but her parents had always known.

“And he really must love you,” Mum went on, helping herself to a piece of toasted bread piled high with chopped tomato, fresh basil, and grated parmesan. “To have done what he did for you.”

Myriad events flashed through Hermione’s mind: Ron, at twelve, vomiting up slugs; at thirteen, telling off Professor Snape; at fourteen, begrudgingly pinning an SPEW badge to his robes; at eighteen, offering himself up for torture in exchange for her. Posing starkers for a figure drawing ranked rather low on his running list of self-sacrifices, and yet it was not lost on Hermione how lucky they were that this was now their biggest concern.

“You’re right,” replied Hermione, taking her own slice of bruschetta. “He really does.”

•••

Ron was at the sink, scrubbing a sponge over a dinner plate, when Hermione walked through the door of their flat. “Hi,” Hermione greeted him brightly, approaching him in search of a quick kiss hello. “I’ve brought leftover spag bol if you want it.”

“You know I do.” Ron shut off the faucet and picked up a small towel to dry his hands, then bent to touch his lips to Hermione’s. “A departure from your usual, innit?”

“I didn’t want anything particularly fancy,” replied Hermione, handing the styrofoam box to Ron, who immediately opened it to peer inside. “I was a bit put off my appetite to be honest with you.”

“Uh oh.” Ron fished a fork out of a drawer. “Dare I ask how it went?”

“You were very well-received,” Hermione assured him, making him grin as he twisted strands of pasta around his fork. “But erm…”

“Yes?”

“My mum… she, er…”

“Oh, no.” Ron paused with his fork in mid-air. “She didn’t have… _comments_ , did she?”

“She did, actually, but that’s not the problem. She…” Hermione waited while Ron chewed his mouthful of pasta. Unlike her, his appetite only increased during times of distress. “She drew my dad.”

To her surprise, Ron burst into raucous laughter. “Yeah, I expected that she would have done.”

“You could have warned me!”

“And you could have warned me that a group of twenty people were going to see my todger before you had me starkers in the sitting room,” Ron grinned, “but you didn’t, did you?”

Though she was outwardly scowling at him, Hermione had to work to keep a smile off her face. “Again, it’s not like I took photos-”

“Merlin’s pants, I bet that’ll be next-”

“And really, it’s quite different when it’s your own father - I didn’t look at it or anything,” Hermione was quick to state, “but even just knowing…”

She broke off with a shudder. Ron set down the container of pasta and folded her into his arms, where she laid her cheek automatically against his chest. 

“That sounds traumatic,” said Ron, gently kissing the top of Hermione’s head. 

“It really was.”

“Should we sign you up for therapy?”

“Yes, please.”

With another little chuckle, he kissed the top of her head again, and she settled in against him. Her mum had been right: she did have a connection with him that was unlike anything else. She had always known that they would end up exactly as they were now, even when they hadn’t been able to see it themselves.

“So you said your mum had some comments?” asked Ron after a few minutes’ easy silence. “I’m a little scared to ask.”

“Not about the picture,” Hermione said. “Mostly about how… how good you are for me.”

“Yeah?”

“She referred to you as her future son-in-law.”

Ron loosened his grip on Hermione just enough to look down at her with pleasant surprise. “Did she really?”

Hermione nodded again. “Does that… freak you out?”

It was not a question of whether he loved her, or was wholeheartedly committed to her; she knew without a shadow of a doubt how he felt. But with marriage came things like babies and home loans and joint vaults at Gringotts, and it was not unreasonable to think that at nineteen, he might not be ready for it.

But he just shook his head, and moved in to kiss her again - this one soft, warm, lingering. “Nope. Not at all.”

Happily, Hermione resumed hugging him.

“Maybe next time,” said Ron, his hand rubbing idly up her spine, “you lot could do something a little more… you could join a book club, maybe. Something like that.”

“That could be fun,” responded Hermione. “Only, my mum’s got a bit of a penchant for romance novels.”

“Oh. Perhaps not, then…”


End file.
